


Brothers

by littlespider9



Category: Dunkirk (2017)
Genre: AU continuation, Angst, Brotherhood, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Platonic Relationships, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, World War II
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-18
Packaged: 2018-12-16 11:07:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11827470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/littlespider9/pseuds/littlespider9
Summary: Peter had an older brother once and Collins a younger. In the aftermath of the Dunkirk evacuation, the two young men allow themselves to pretend for just a little bit longer.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Went and saw Dunkirk twice and I think it's safe to say I'm officially obsessed. There are so many opportunities for brotherly, soldierly bonding that it's really my ideal film.
> 
> Speaking of bonding, enjoy what was meant to be a little Collins/Peter friendship fic and then completely got away from me.

 

 _[_ _1940]_

 

Collins is fading fast by the time they finally touch down in Dorset. The adrenaline he’d felt when his Spitfire crashed into the sea, the same adrenaline that had kept him going all day, finally dissipates.  As the rough waters of the channel give way to orderly houses and docks, as they get closer to the relative safety of _home_ , of _Britain_ , Collins finds the world fading out around him as the rushing in his ears gets louder.

The pilot barely takes notice as the tired and still soaked soldiers start to disembark, though he does have enough wits about him to clamber down the gangplank to make room for the stretcher carrying the dead boy. Internally Collins sighs. Every soldier lost in this war is just another dead boy.

He stands off to the side, watching the stretcher disappear into the night. He wonders what he should do, where he should go. Collins shivers in the chill night air, the sodden blue of his uniform the only spot of color amidst a sea of grey-brown backs.

“Oi, you, RAF!” Collins feels hands clutching at the front of his coat and then there is a soldier, blinking up at him out of an oil-smeared face. The man’s eyes are wild. “Where the fuck were _you_ , eh?”

Collins swallows thickly, his tongue heavy in his mouth. The words stick in his throat. 

The man shakes him none too gently. “We were like fish in a barrel! Where _the fuck_ were you?”

Before Collins can  get a word in, another man lunges from his right and a fist makes contact with his temple. Another fist catches him in the ribs, hard enough to double him over and gasp for breath. Someone else has their hands round the back of his neck, keeping him down, but he can’t bringing himself to resist. The breathlessness is familiar, the panic creeping up his throat.

“Back up!”

Collins hears shoving around him and then there is that voice again. “Oi, sod off, you lot! He’s done his bit, give the man some space.”

The pressure on his neck is released and when Collins looks up, it’s to the striking figure of Peter Dawson, single-handedly fending of the small group of tired, angry soldiers. Something about the goldenness of this boy, the fierceness in his face, perhaps, takes the fight right out of them. One hand gripping Collins’ bicep, Peter waves them on. “Go on now, mind you don’t get left behind.”

That sends the soldiers scampering after the crowd and then Peter is kneeling beside Collins, who has sunk to his knees under the force of a rasping cough. He can feel the water in his mouth, in his nose, and it makes the coughing worse.

Peter waits patiently until he gets himself under control, the cough subsiding into a faint wheeze. The boy squeezes his bicep ever so slightly. “Why didn’t you say anything? You almost died trying to defend them." 

Collins allows himself to be hauled upright, blinking away the tears the harsh coughing had brought to his eyes. “Aye, but that’s not what they wanted t’ hear.”

“Could’ve at least let them know you weren’t just pissin’ about,” Peter scowls, eyeing the dark bruise already blossoming on Collins’ pale temple. He reaches out to press a finger to it, but retracts his hand quickly as if scalded. “You’re burnin’ up. Come on, then.” 

Collins knows he should follow the other soldiers towards the train station, knows he should try to get word to his superiors, but all the same he allows the young Peter Dawson to lead him off the docks and up towards the small stone residences of Dorset. He puts one foot in front of another doggedly, following the golden-haired young man who shines like a beacon in the cold of night.

 

\--

 

When he sees his mother’s face go ashen, her eyes fixated on the blue RAF jacket like he’s brought home a ghost, Peter begins to think that this wasn’t such a good idea. But then the pilot stumbles over the threshold and into his back and Peter decides he’s done the right thing.

“Mum, this is -” Suddenly Peter realizes that he never asked the pilot’s name. 

For how out of it man seemed on the docks, he has not forgotten his manners. He inclines his head slightly to the mistress of the house. “Corporal Jack Collins. Your husband and son did me the honor of saving my life today. I find myself quite in your debt.”

Mrs. Dawson smiles, but the light does not travel up to her eyes. Thankfully, Mr. Dawson chooses that moment to return from escorting home George’s body and strides into the kitchen through a small back door. He stops short at the sight of Collins, shivering there in his sodden clothes. 

“Corporal!” Mr. Dawson exclaims, hanging up his own jacket on a well worn peg and tops it off with his hat. “I’ll admit I was not expecting to see you again.”

Collins’ flushes slightly, his expression chagrined. “My apologies, sir. I do not mean to intrude-”

“Nonsense!” Mr. Dawson sweeps the pilot’s unease like dust under the rug and Peter finds himself eternally grateful for the largeness of his father’s heart. “Come, sit by the fire. Lillian, the lad’s soaked through. I’m sure we can find something dry for him?” 

Peter takes in his mother’s silent, short nod and the way she retreats hurriedly from the room and feels guilt flare up in his chest again. But when he looks up, his father is looking him with kind eyes.

“Corporal, let me take your coat.”

As Mr. Dawson settles Collins in his own, sturdy chair by the fire, Peter hangs the pilot’s jacket on the back of another chair to dry out. The wool is dense and still damp, but also thin enough that Peter is sure it did nothing to block the wind that had battered them for the better part of the day. It is the sort of uniform that looks good in a coffin, Peter thinks suddenly and darkly, but really isn’t much good for anything else. 

Then again, he doesn’t know how common it is for pilots to survive when their planes are shot out of the sky. 

“You’ll have to forgive my wife,” Mr. Dawson murmurs lightly as he puts the kettle on. “She hasn’t seen an RAF uniform since our son, Paul.”

Collins merely hums noncommittally, raising shaking hands in front of him as he inches closer to the fire. Peter notices the man’s blue eyes are vacant; he remembers that same look in the eyes of the first soldier they saved, the one who killed George.

Suddenly he needs to get as far from the pilot as possible and is halfway through the door before he even realizes he’s moving. “I’ll see if Mum needs help.”

He finds his mother knelt down in Paul’s room in front of a trunk of clothes. Clothes Paul will never wear again, but that they aren’t able to get rid of because getting rid of his things would be like getting rid of Paul himself. The trunk is unopened.

“Mum.” Peter joins her on the floor and reaches over to grab her hand. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… He had nowhere else to go.”

She shushes him before he can finish and dabs at her eyes with a handkerchief. “You’re your father’s son, I shouldn’t have expected any less than of you. I’m just being silly.”

Peter doesn’t think mourning Paul was silly at all, but he doesn’t say so aloud. Instead he sits there with her until she gives his hand a little squeeze, reaches forward and swings the trunk’s lid back in a single decisive motion.

When they return to the kitchen, they find Mr. Dawson puttering around and talking of nothing in particular as Collins sits hunched over in front of the fire, blanket around his shoulders and mug of tea in his hands. The firelight accentuates the dark smudges under each eye and the slimness of his form that speaks to months of military rations, but Peter is pleased to see his eyes look clearer. The danger has passed.

Apparently Mrs. Dawson doesn’t think so because she seems to thaw the instant she sets her eyes on the young pilot. She looks him up and down and clucks her tongue. “Oh dear, you’re thin as a rake.”

“Mum!” Peter says in mortification as she presses the stack of clothing they gathered into the pilot’s hands.  For his part, Collins merely blinks at her as though waking from a strange dream.

Mrs. Dawson ignores her son, instead patting the pilot’s shoulder gently before reaching for her apron. “Never you worry, Corporal, I’ll have some supper ready in a pinch and we’ll fatten you right-" 

“Jack,” Collins cuts in suddenly, seeming to find his way back from wherever it was his mind had wandered off to. “Call me Jack, or Collins if you prefer.” 

For a moment, Mrs. Dawson looks like she might cry again. Peter understands: he doesn’t want to call the pilot Jack, doesn’t want to get attached when all he’s going to do is walk out of their lives the next morning. But then she breathes once through her nose and somehow summons a smile. “Jack, then. There’s a washroom at the end of the hall if you’d like to get cleaned up.”

Collins nods in assent, but Mrs. Dawson has already turned back around and Peter is the only one who catches it. He is still watching when the pilot picks up his borrowed clothes and walks out of the room.

 

\--

 

Peter doesn’t sleep much that night.

His pulse pounds steadily in his temple and he focuses on that. If he’s honest, Peter’s not sure he wants to close his eyes. When he does, he sees men in the water, swimming hard and desperately towards the Moonstone and they all have Paul’s face. All except for that young boy off in the distance; he looks like George.

Instead, Peter stares at the wall just opposite his bed.  He listens hard for any sound from Collins who is sleeping in Paul’s bed just on the other side of that wall. He’s heard stories of boys who come home just fine, not a scratch on them, but who cry out at night. Molly Garner, the local shopkeeper’s girl, told him that when her brother came home on a weekend’s leave, he kept them up on all night with his terrors. 

But Collins doesn’t make a sound and Peter gets the irrational fear that sleeping there, sleeping in a dead man’s bed, might’ve killed the pilot. So he sneaks into the other room and, when Collins doesn’t stir, holds his hand under the other man’s mouth. It comes away hot and slightly damp with the other man’s breath.

Peter returns to his own bed and decides that’s just how it is. Some men get night terrors and some, like Collins, sleep like the dead. Peter spends the rest of the night thinking about it and, in the end, he’s still not sure which is worse.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this chapter, I've imagined Collins was a little closer to drowning than he might have seemed in the actual film. For, you know, artistic license and drama and stuff.

_[1940]_

 

When Peter comes down for breakfast in the morning, both his parents look up at him expectantly. Seeing his son alone, Mr. Dawson returns to his paper, but Mrs. Dawson is not dissuaded. 

“Is the Corp- Is Jack not with you?” She wants to know.

Peter shakes his head; he feels like his head is stuffed with cotton. He manages a piece of toast and half a cup of tea before another question lands on his plate.

Mr. Dawson fluffs his newspaper and clears his throat. “I couldn’t help but notice the shiner,” he says waggling one finger around his own wrinkled temple.

Peter hesitates a moment, not particularly certain what to say. “The other soldiers weren’t particularly pleased to see him. And he wasn’t quite… I didn’t think it was a good idea, letting him go off on his own.” 

Mr. Dawson nods understandingly and Peter immediately feels better about bringing this wayward pilot home. His mother’s gazes goes sharp. “You mean to say our own boys did that to him?”

“There were thousands of men trapped on that beach, Lillian, and the RAF only saw fit to send three planes,” Mr. Dawson explains, fluffing his paper once more. “It’s understandable that they might be a bit… put off.” 

Mrs. Dawson sends look at the stairs, worrying at her lip, and Peter sighs. “Mum, do you want me to get him?”

“No, no,” she says quickly, though the line of concern doesn’t disappear from between her eyebrows. “Let the poor lad sleep.”

But five minutes later she’s still looking at the stairs, so Peter shoves back his chair and makes his way to his brother’s room. He knocks lightly on the door. “Corp- Collins? Mum’s made breakfast if you’re hungry.” 

There’s no response and Peter finds himself hovering uncertainly outside the door. He knocks once more for good measure before gripping the handle and swinging the door open just enough to peer inside. “Collins?”

The pilot’s still in bed and Peter almost leaves him be when he notices the bright red flush on the previously pale cheeks. Feeling a strange knot in his stomach, Peter lets himself into the room.

Up close, Collins does not look good.

Aside from the obvious flush, his face is bathed in sweat and Peter can practically feel the heat radiating off him. He’s breathing in quick little pants and this close, Peter can see Collins trembling. 

It takes less than ten seconds to run back down the stairs and into the kitchen. His fear must show on his face because just as he enters the room than Mrs. Dawson shoots to her feet, startling her husband.

“Peter?”

“Something’s wrong.”

The low fever which prompted Peter to bring Collins home in the first place has taken hold in the night. Mrs. Dawson’s face is unreadable as she removes the thermometer from the pilot’s mouth. “39 degrees. Do you think it’s rheumatic?" 

Peter doesn’t quite understand what this means, but Mr. Dawson shakes his head. “More likely to be from exposure. The lad nearly drowned.”

Of course, they haven’t told her that, haven’t had the heart to tell her about anything more than George’s unfortunate death. Peter watches as her eyes harden.

Mr. Dawson sees the change too, because he reaches for his wife and takes the thermometer from her hand. “Lillian, fetch us some water and broth. Peter and I’ll tend the lad.” 

His brother didn’t die in this room, but as Peter watches his mother hurry out the door, he wonders if she’s thinking of Paul as well.

 

\--

 

“Dad?” Peter asks, running a damp cloth over the pilot’s flushed face. “D’you think we ought to tell somebody? In the RAF, I mean.”

It’s been nearly two days since he brought the young RAF pilot home and the fever has still not let up. If anything, Collins is getting worse. He’s started to cough now, a wet choking sound from deep in his throat that brings up a cloudy mucus. Mr. Dawson says it’s better to cough from the throat them from the lungs, but Peter dreads the desperate gasping all the same.

The pilot’s taken to talking to quietly to Peter, who’s been sat by his bedside the entire time. Most of what he says means little to Peter; he mumbles about wildflowers in the snow, a card game he lost once, and asks occasionally for his “Da.” Peter never responds. He doesn’t think the pilot is really aware of his presence, anyways. 

“I sent a telegram to the local branch this morning,” Mr. Dawson says quietly from where he leans against the doorframe. “Figured they’d be thinkin’ him dead or MIA if they didn’t get word soon.”

Collins’ breath suddenly hitches and then he’s coughing, choking really, and Peter can see the veins straining in his neck. The first time this happened, the poor lad was scared out of his wits. Now Peter forces a hand behind the pilot’s back and helps him upright to ease his breathing. He can feel the lean, corded muscles of Collins’ body spasming with each cough.

It takes almost two minutes for the attack to subside and when it does, Peter feels like he’s aged half a lifetime.

 

\--

 

“Max?”

It's been three days when they receive a response from the Air Ministry. _Confirmed ID. Stop. Appreciate assistance. Stop. Designated medical leave until well enough to travel. Stop._

Peter’s lost count of how many hours he’s spent at the pilot’s bedside. To ward off the madness of boredom and the sound of strained breathing, he begins reading Collins the newspaper. He reads about the 300,000 troops that made it off Dunkirk, then goes back and reads Churchill’s address aloud. Peter finds it hard to believe that he, a simple lad from Weymouth, was involved in something so huge. 

Collins tries to clear his throat and Peter feels a weak grip on his sleeve. “Maxie, that you? What’re you doin’ here?”

Peter goes to tuck the pilot’s hand back under the covers, but Collins suddenly has a hold of his wrist. His grip is surprisingly strong for someone so ill. Peter tries to pull away.

“Collins… Jack, it’s me. Peter Dawson,” Peter says in what he hopes is a soothing tone of voice, though he’s not sure the words mean anything to the other man. “You’re alright.”

Collins face contorts in momentary confusion before his chin starts to tremble and his fevered, glassy eyes well with tears. He surges upright, scares Peter half to death, and grabs onto the collar of the younger man’s jumper with his free hand. “You’ve gotta get out of here! They’ll kill you, Maxie, understand?”

Peter nods and wonders if he looks as terrified as he feels. Collins is looking at him, though Peter’s not sure who the pilot is actually seeing. The grip on his collar tightens and he nods again. “I understand.”

Those two words seem to take the fight right out of Collins, or maybe it’s too difficult to keep a hold of Peter when a coughing fit tears its way out of his throat. Either way, the second Collins lets go Peter is up out of his chair and all the way across the room. His heart his pounding and he feels out of breath. When Collins slumps back on the bed and Peter finally forces himself from the wall, he realizes his hands are shaking.

The episode seems to have taken a lot out of Collins. He lies there breathing hard as Peter positions the thermometer in his mouth. His lips are dry and cracked and he’s lost what little color he had in his complexion, to begin with. Peter wonders vaguely how he could have been frightened of the man at all.

“Dad!”

Mr. Dawson is at the door in a matter of seconds, looking harried. “Peter, what-”

Peter holds up the thermometer: 41 degrees.

Mr. Dawson looks at the thermometer for a long moment, before glancing at the young pilot. He takes a breath as if to steady himself. “Go run the tap.”

As the tub fills with water, Peter and his father strip Collins down to his briefs. Mrs. Dawson was right; without the silhouette of his uniform Collins is thin. Not so thin as to be troubling, but Peters wonders what he looked like before the war, before Dunkirk. 

Thin though he may be, it takes the two of them to maneuver Collins into the washroom. Peter is grateful his mother is out; this is a sight he doesn’t think she could bear. They ease him down into the tub of cool water and Mr. Dawson turns off the tap. The water goes midway up the Collins’ pale chest, but the pilot is only semi-conscious and doesn’t seem to notice.

At first, Peter doesn’t think the water is having any effect. Then he sees it, the tiniest hint of a tremor. 

“Dad.” 

Mr. Dawson sees it too. “It’s alright son, it means his body is starting to cool down. We’ll leave him just until his temperature goes down a bit. Fetch the thermometer, will you?”

It’s a slow process, cooling Collins down. It’s as though his body heat is leeching out into the water, because Mr. Dawson partially drains and refills the tub several times over.

“Do you think any of this is worth it?” Peter wonders aloud as his father takes the pilot’s temperature yet again.

Mr. Dawson stands and rolls his shoulders, as though trying to work out a kink from kneeling over the tub for over half an hour. “What do you mean, son? Us helpin’ him?”

Peter shrugs and mentally fails for a moment, trying to put this feeling in his chest to words. “Collins, Paul, George… All of it.”

Mr. Dawson’s eyes are sad, but before he can answer Collins makes some kind of moaning sound in his throat and slips a little down the side of the tub. The water licks at his chin and his teeth are beginning to chatter. 

“It’s alright, son.” Mr. Dawson is there in an instant, removing the thermometer from the pilots mouth: 38 degrees.

Collins finally succeeds in working his bruised looking eyelids open and glances hurriedly around him. The water in the tub sloshes a bit with the jerking movements of his head. His hands grope at the sides of the tub, trying to gain purchase.

Peter only catches a glimpse of it, that vacant look, before Collins starts thrashing.

 

\--

 

Collins is going to die.

He still can’t get the damn roof open and he’s run out of time. Ridiculously, as the last ounce of oxygen is burned from his lungs, Collins thinks about why he didn’t pull his chute. Thinks about how just last week, he watched from the relative safety of the sky as one of his fellow pilots landed in the swell, only to become entangled in the material of his chute and drown anyway.

He should’ve known an assignment to protect Dunkirk was an assignment to a watery grave.

He’s flailing now, pounding his fists against the sides of the cockpit and shoving at the roof. Somewhere in the back of his mind, his training warns him to stop struggling, that he’s using up too much oxygen. But he is completely submerged now and whoever wrote the training manual probably never _actually_ experienced drowning, so _sod him_.

Black spots are dancing in front of his eyes. Collins is going to die.

 

\--

 

It amazes Peter how fast Collins goes from unconscious to all out terror.

One second he’s blinking owlishly at them, trying to push himself upright, and then he goes under. He’s back up not half a second later with a strangled cry that puts Peter right back out on the Moonstone, staring in horror at the men burning alive in the middle of the ocean. Collins is trying to get his feet under him, but he slips and goes under again.

Mr. Dawson hurriedly reaches in and grabs one pale arm, hauling Collins back up above the water. “Easy, lad!”

But Collins doesn’t seem to hear him, instead shoving the man so hard Peter thinks his father might fall over. He suddenly sees flashes of George falling down the stairs of the Moonstone and cracking his skull. “Dad!”

“Stay back, Peter!” Mr. Dawson warns, taking a step back himself as they watch Collins frantically try and lift himself out of the water. Except he keeps slipping and doesn’t seem aware enough to haul himself out over the sides of the tub. The water is sloshing over the sides, soaking the rough stone floor.

The pilot is gasping and emitting a sort of low keening noise and Peter suddenly understands. He takes a step towards the tub and his father grabs his arm. “He thinks he’s drowning!”

“What?” Realization slowly filters across Mr. Dawson’s face.

“He thinks he’s still in his plane,” Peter elaborates, trying and failing to get a grasp on one of Collins’ flailing arms. “Help me get him out!”

It’s messy business trying to get the pilot out of the tub, especially when he keeps fighting them like they are the jaws of death itself. Eventually they wind up in a dripping heap on the floor, Peter’s arms wrapped tightly around Collins in an attempt to keep the pilot’s arms pinned down. He feels the spilled bathwater soaking into the bottom of his trousers as Collins strains against him. Mr. Dawson mutters something about getting a blanket and hurries out of the room.

“Corporal Collins!” Peter grunts out, struggling to maintain hold of the older boy who is now arching his back up and away from his rescuer, fingers scrabbling at Peter’s trousers. “Stop, you’re fine! You’re fine.”

The words taste like ash in his mouth because the last time he uttered those words, George ended up dead. But they seem to help a little, so Peter keeps talking quietly. “You’re fine, you’re safe. You’re home.”

He keeps at it, mumbling low, nonsensical comforts until his throat feels raw and Collins stops fighting.


End file.
